I live in a fire. I live on a stopped train full of chickens and cigarettes. The rain I catch in my hand is sap the trees sweat out and I am bleeding too. My skin's hot and dry, freckling at each burning pinprick.

Standing in the bathroom, my hand, for the first time, did not shake. And no one noticed. I am past catching and past caring. I just want it over as fast as it can be.

I'll be wearing a blue satin dress, I'll be trashy with my burned skin and battered heels. I'll be smoking in the shadows and I'll be waiting.

When the night comes I'll stop smiling. I'll turn my face to the wall and watch those old flames flare up, swallowing secret gasps in the dark as the rest of the world burns down and leaves just the ticket in my hand to the place that's always there. The place I never reach.